


Beneath Me, His Power

by MiniOranges



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Angst, Cock Slut, M/M, Rough Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:29:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28831974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiniOranges/pseuds/MiniOranges
Summary: Erik Killmonger overlooks the city skyline on a dimly-lit balcony. The lights beyond him looked to be endless and blindingly intense, but all the more mesmerizing. He tries to focus; fixates on the rapid passing of each transport talon fighter or the glowing moon and its rivalry of luminescence. But he finds he cannot. It’s damn near impossible.
Relationships: Erik Killmonger/T'Challa
Comments: 10
Kudos: 33





	Beneath Me, His Power

Erik Killmonger overlooks the city skyline on a dimly-lit balcony. The lights beyond him looked to be endless and blindingly intense, but all the more mesmerizing. He tries to focus; fixates on the rapid passing of each transport talon fighter or the glowing moon and its rivalry of luminescence. But he finds he cannot. It’s damn near impossible.

Because beneath his stance, which looked to be upright and authoritative in the ways only Erik "Killmonger" Stevens could perfect, is the warm, wet suction of T’Challa’s devastatingly gratifying mouth; sucking on Erik’s cock like a lifeline. It’s nothing shortof marvelous, Erik thinks. T’Challa must’ve learned a lot from all their previous sessions.

He grips the balcony’s edge as tight as ever; tighter than the hollow of T’Challa’s cheeks upon coming back to the tip during each upstroke. Erik can only breathe heavily in return, makes an effort not to close his eyes or throw his head back.

The most difficult to avoid though, was stroking his king’s hair, caressing the nape as if to say _you’re doing great, and I would do this again a thousand times more than the sun rises and sets_.

But he finds he cannot. It’s damn near impossible.

So instead, he settles on looking into the void— into nothing in particular. Only if it means evading the intensity that is _T’Challa_.

T’Challa swirls his tongue around the crown languidly. A crown he so rightfully deserves, both as king and as _Erik’s_. Especially the latter. At once, he lets it go for a bit to lick at the sides, slowly but still with finesse. His tongue follows a protruding vein, flits on it for a generous amount of time before nosing the entire length as a concluding action, inhaling pure skin.

Upon coming back up, he kisses the tip like it’s a delicate thing, praises it more than anyone else could towards himself. He suckles Erik’s pre-cum with a gentle pull, lips closed around the sensitivity, moaning lightly at the taste.

It vibrates through Erik, who exhales quite so exasperatedly even as he’s on the receiving end. T’Challa chooses to trail saliva under it then, each movement inching closer to Erik’s balls. They’re covered by navy-blue underwear, but it doesn’t deter T’Challa. Nothing ever does.

He pulls them down, hastily like a long-awaited gift, almost immediately mouthing around and over them like it’s all he’d ever wanted. At the same moment, T’Challa looks up, finds Erik still breathing hard with sweat beginning its wake on his forehead. His knuckles must’ve been white already, gripping at the vibranium-laced railing with every last ounce of jurisdiction— if there’s even any.

Erik does not look down. He finds he cannot and it’s damn near impossible.

T’Challa continues to lap at the soft, cushion-y skin, savors the musk in its strongest. Satisfied, he drags his mouth back to the front, along the underside, and encircles his hand around the base of his cousin’s cock. Those hands that were previously clutching Erik’s thighs so as to not let anything— not even himself —get in the way of the glistening, pulsating member, damp from spit.

"Get back to it." Erik commands. The waver in his voice gives away something else. He still does not look down.

T’Challa obeys, smirking inside. He knows what he does to this man.

As if abandoning all rational thought, he swallows it whole, down to the root. His hungry mouth bumps with his encircled fist and it annoys T’Challa for a short while, wants _nothing_ to keep him apart from this.

And still, all hell breaks loose. _Especially Erik_.

He immediately throws his head back, grunting, closing his eyes in both pleasure and disbelief, immersed in bliss, and overwhelmed with utter surrender. For a split second, he regrets succumbing, but knew all too well it’d lead nowhere but here anyway. No one could resist this, he deduces idly.

Below all of that, T’Challa sighs happily to himself. That was all it took. Granted he might’ve gagged against the engorged organ and had salty, sinuous waters form in his eyes like glassy remnants of the sin he still chose to perform; but he made N’Jadaka vulnerable. Over and over again.

T’Challa does it repeatedly this time, deep-throats Erik’s erection all the way in. It hits the gullet the same way it rammed inside his abused hole all those other nights. The tears escape him little by little, streaking down flushed cheeks so freely it could replace Warrior Falls. But T’Challa knew it all served to drive the man above him a little more insane than he already is now.

Unsurprisingly enough, T’Challa’s continuous bobbing had caused Erik to finally let go of the balcony’s edge and settle his hands to hold the sides of the king’s head. Erik palms the back, protecting it from slamming against solid concrete as he himself starts to pump his hips in rhythm too. It’s all the more accomplishing for T’Challa. The barriers were only beginning to wear down.

"Fuck, baby. Can’t get enough of this, _never_. Still fucking touching you even when I promised not agai— _ah, fuck_." Erik breathes, gets interrupted by the wonderful heat along the way.

He’s stroking T’Challa’s hair now, wholly not-caring anymore. He did this to himself, he thinks.

Meanwhile, the older man makes the most erotic of slurping noises. Pants around the throbbing cock like it’s the last thing keeping him alive. He even hears the sounds himself, loud enough to echo on later when he’s facing the family, the country, the _world_ , making him blush like a schoolgirl.

But not now though. Tonight, he’s in control— even on his knees. They say a king only ever bows to their mate.

T’Challa gazes up, and Erik is still not looking down. He tries the oldest trick in their book and hopes for the ultimate shatter. T’Challa goes down, breathes the length entirely to the base and sucks it harshly on the journey away. The cock pops out of his mouth, and he exhales hotly onto it. The combination of that and Wakanda’s cool, night air, did wonders to Erik’s member.

And when he finally, _finally_ looks down without much debate, it’s very telling of what his place in this 'relationship' of theirs is doing to him and his years-long, trained instincts.

The implications don’t even matter, because T’Challa kneeling in front of Erik looking absolutely debauched, ruined, and delirious, makes amends— regardless of how many they are.

T’Challa sits, flustered. He’s looking at his cousin with fluttering, long eyelashes that frame such pretty, brown eyes. Eyes that shimmer under the artificial lights of Wakanda’s tech, oozing innocence and naivety. But all of that cancels out once Erik notices the streaks of dark-red on his cheeks, it’s hot to the touch as he thumbs away the tear-tracks from earlier. Erik’s dick, moist and hard, looks insanely good swaying in front of this beautiful picture.

Erik cannot decide whether looking down was worth it or otherwise.

T’Challa’s attractive whine, high-pitched and needy, interrupts his internal battle. He seeks for the cock, leans forward in an attempt to swallow it back. Erik places a firm hand around his neck to halt.

"What do you want, T’Challa? Tell me." He asks in lieu of going batshit crazy.

"I want to finish, N’Jadaka. Please— I— I need— _Mmmmm_."

Erik pushes his dick inside that tempting mouth in one swift motion without restraint. It effectively shuts T’Challa up from releasing anymore of his sultry voice; just enough of breathy and husky.

He wants no words, definitely not now.

Erik swears to himself as he stares down at his king, completely enjoying the brutal snap of his hips, gagging and moaning at the cock invading his paradise of a mouth. That mouth has both saved lives and ended decades of inter-tribe hostility, but who would’ve thought its greatest pleasure was right here, open and inviting, engulfing dick.

They carry on with the pace for a few minutes. The explosion has been building-up ever since Erik dragged T’Challa to his bedchambers, intent on coming inside and watching it leak out of T’Challa’s whore-hole; the shining, creamy-white against glowing, dark skin would’ve looked picturesque. But for now, the circumstances weren’t at level with their interests. Just the thought boiled Erik into anger.

And as if on cue. "My King? T’Challa? Are you inside?" Nakia knocks.

Oh, what would Erik give just to let her in right now, see her precious lover on his knees for the man who usurped the throne and almost destroyed the world.

"T’Challa the ceremony is alive and well, Queen Mother and I have been looking for you. The nobilities have arrived."

T’Challa doesn’t even blink. If anything, he sucks more fervently, greedily, eyes conveying mischief. The action as Erik’s stomach fluttering, and it disgusts him to think of any underlying signs behind it. _No, it could never be_.

To hide his weak display of hope, Erik raises his brows in retaliation and smirks teasingly.

They don’t talk about it, mostly because it was already an unspoken understanding, but the glints in both of their gazes are explanation enough.

Nakia must’ve gotten the hint or just gave up. Either way, Erik doesn’t give a single fuck. Whether she knows or not, he’s going to enjoy the climax before his king slips away from him again, gets lost in the sea of aristocrats and global leaders talking peace and unity even as he rings the depravity out of T’Challa right under everyone’s noses. The same way Erik got lost in all of _this_.

Feeling the end dawn over him, he talks a few. It’s the least he could do.

_Like that, baby? Want everyone out there to see you like this. Just for me, hm?_

_What’d they say huh? Such a powerful king kneeling for a criminal._

_God I want to come inside you right now, see that perfect hole squeeze around my cock. The shit you do to me, pretty._

_We gon’ do this again, right? Sneak in your room later, let you ride just so I don’t go a day without impaling you._

_Wanna pump you full, baby. You don’t even know. Dream of filling you with my cum and cock every night—_

Erik stutters, high on sensual gratification, and shoots inside T’Challa’s mouth. He pumps everything and the remaining out, wants the other man to take the hint and milk him dry just in case they fail to meet later on an after-party treat.

T’Challa swallows, doesn’t even flinch. He hums around the softening cock, enjoying the taste of Erik’s essence. He stays carrying the organ, laps around the cock-head and allows the come to melt on his taste buds. Finally, he deep-throats it for the last time to catch any streaks left lingering around the length and finishes with a light pull. It makes a popping sound.

T’Challa licks his lips and gulps everything he tasted. He doesn’t waste one bit. No king ever does.

On the other hand, Erik’s chest remains rising and falling rapidly. As usual, they don’t exchange any more words than what is needed.

"I’d say it was perfect, but then there’d be no next time for you to prove better." Erik casually says, smiling as he zips his trousers back up.

T’Challa stands, chuckling. It’s too cute for someone who just got throat-fucked by a known killer.

And holy hell, he already looks as presentable as he did before their coupling. _How was T’Challa even real?_

"I’d say you’re not, N’Jadaka. So maybe prove _me_ better." The older man replies.

Before Erik could even muster a retort, T’Challa kisses his cheek and says. "I have another duty to attend to." All while looking into his eyes deeply for a few seconds.

Erik would say he was taken aback, but he won’t out loud. It has happened too many times that now it’s just comprehensible.

T’Challa walks past him like a subtle wind reminding a person of its easily-forgettable omnipresence. Erik doesn’t look over his shoulder. He _tries_ to not look over his shoulder.

He passively thinks that this must’ve been Bast’s punishment to him after inciting a civil war.

Erik looks into the void again, and everything remained the same; the moon still glows as bright as the city lights, the movement of people from far away still ensured the hustle and bustle of the community, keeping a tight-knit system, and the world seemed to go on— even as Erik’s own stopped.

Despite this, he thinks nothing will ever be the same.

It takes a few moments for Erik to reprimand himself for _looking down_. For choosing to gaze at T’Challa in all his corrupted wonder. _For continuing whatever the fuck they’re doing._

He read somewhere— or maybe just made it up for his own fulfillment — that one should avoid looking down when jumping off cliffs. This is a cliff he chose to jump and he should have not looked down.

And even though that thought persists, blinding Erik enough of any more belief, desire,and useless _hope_. He still ponders, at the back of his mind, that maybe—

Maybe in another life, they could be together.


End file.
